


The Tameness of a Wolf

by The_Lionheart



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, And also a lot of made-up bits, DO NOT READ IF YOU DON'T WANT SPOILERS, Established Relationship, M/M, Phobias, Spoilers, ccbingo, spoilers for the movie, wrote this before I saw the movie so bits don't fit anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-27
Updated: 2012-04-27
Packaged: 2017-11-04 09:48:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/392476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Lionheart/pseuds/The_Lionheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>WARNING! SPOILERS!</p>
<p><i>Don't take it away from me.<br/>I need someone to hold on to<br/>Hey God, there's nothing left for me to hide.<br/>I lost my ignorance, security and pride.<br/>I'm all alone in a world you must despise.</i><br/>~Terrible Lie, Nine Inch Nails</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tameness of a Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Prompt #1: Agateophobia; for CCBingo, Round 2: Phobias.
> 
> FIRST WARNING IS FOR SPOILERS FOR THE MOVIE
> 
>  
> 
> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
> 
>  
> 
> Second: This story contains child abuse, mental illness, fear of mental illness, characters being forced to do things against their will, several f-bombs dropped here and there, and major character death. Tags will be edited once the movie comes out here.

It's the first thing he can find, when he casts back in search of his earliest memory. Barney's birthday party, turning seven, which means Clint won't be five for two months yet. It's just Momma and Daddy and Barney and Clint, no neighborhood kids (nobody's stupid enough to want a repeat of _last time_ ) and none of Barney's friends from school ( _what friends?_ Barney'd asked when his mom broached the subject) and it should be _safe_ , should be _manageable._

“Come here, you little shits,” Daddy growls from over by the fridge. There are party balloons on strings, tied to the chairs in the dining room. More than half of them are purple. Barney doesn't _like_ purple, but they were on sale, and Momma wanted as many as she could get. The cake is on the table and the candles are lit up, and Barney's looking at the kitchen, but Clint can see his face and he looks so _tired_ and _angry_.

“Come on, Clint,” Barney's pulling Clint away from the table now, and Momma's standing in the doorway between Daddy and them, the light in her hair a halo, like an angel from Christmas.

“But your candles,” Clint says, because it's Barney's _birthday_ , birthdays are _special_. “You make a wish.”

“Wishes aren't real,” Barney snaps, dragging Clint upstairs. They get all the way to the top, where their bedroom is, when there is a strangled wail from Momma and a loud thud and the rattling of dishes. Barney looks at Clint, scared, and puts a kiss on his forehead.

“I wish you go hide in the closet until I get back,” he breathes out, and blows a little on the place where the kiss is. Clint feels scared, too, but he's a big boy, and it's Barney's wish, so he runs and does exactly that.

It's a long time before Barney climbs into the closet with him, curling up on their old sneakers. Barney's sniffling, and his face is wet, and he makes a soft hurt sound when Clint gives him a hug.

“Sorry, Barney,” Clint whispers, and Barney gives him another kiss.

“You gave me my birthday wish, Clint. Thanks, little brother.” They fall asleep like that, and Clint can never remember what happens later, whether they wake themselves or whether Momma or Daddy finds them.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“You missed _another_ mandatory psych eval,  Barton,” Coulson says, frustrated, early enough that he's still just a Suit and Natasha's still a Killer and Fury's just a name on the memos Clint finds in his locker. “They're mandatory for a _reason_ , Barton. The entire system has to run the way it was _designed_ , which means, as your superior, you actually have to do what I _tell_ you to do. Is this a problem you have with _all_ authority or is it just with _me_?”

“It's not _you_ , it's the _shrinks,_ ” Clint blurts, hunching over his bow, his head bent down so he can't see Coulson's face. He's curled up on the bench in the locker room, and he doesn't want to tell Coulson that he doesn't want the shrinks to find out what's _wrong_ with him, why he's not suited for this work, why he should be locked up like they wanted to lock Momma-

“Barton,” Coulson says, something in his voice a little softer, a little less flat. “It's a standard part of post-mission reviews. They won't ask you any questions that don't have to do with work.”

“You don't _know_ that,” Clint says, running his fingertips along the bowstring. “And what are you gonna do, _fire_ me? Not exactly breakin' my heart if you do.”

Coulson lets out a little sigh, exhaling through his nose because his mouth's pressed into a tight little line. (He doesn't have to see it to know it's there. It's Coulson's default face when Clint's around.) After that, Clint ends up partnered with Natasha next mission, and the next, and the next, and even though Coulson occasionally mentions the shrinks he never again _presses_ it.

Clint breaks into Personnel Data once, because he's bored, and he reads his file, because why not? And it's weird, because after that first mission with Natasha there are so _many_ reports from psych exams he never actually went to, reports that sound about right and containing nothing damning or damaging, but that somehow _have_ to have been _faked_.

(Years later, he puts two and two together, but he can't be mad at Natasha for doing her job or at Phil for doing his, and even if he _could_ hold it against them he wouldn't, because he _loves_ them. Spending all that time with Tasha brought her down from the pedestal where Clint had placed her; that first show of respect for Clint's wishes pulled Phil up out of the gutter.

For many years they were all he had; in some ways they'll always be everything to him.)

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Come here, baby,” Momma says, and Clint doesn't want to tell her _no_ , because he's six years old and she's the love of his life. He steps closer, and she runs her fingers through his shaggy hair, long fingernails tickling unpleasantly on the back of his neck. “You're my good boy, aren't you?”

“Yeah, Momma,” Clint says, because he tries to be. Daddy's at work. Barney's at school. Clint's _supposed_ to be at school, but Momma says she's sick and needs a helper, and tells Clint to stay with her instead of walking to the bus with Barney.

“Give your Momma a kiss,” she wheezes, and Clint is a _bad_ boy because he really doesn't _want_ to. She smells sour, and her hair looks like a crazy lion, and she doesn't even look at him, just through and around him, like he's a _ghost_ and it _scares_ him. Clint freezes, and her nails dig in against the back of his neck. “Come _here_ , boy. Give Momma some sugar.”

Clint is a _bad boy,_ because instead of doing it he _runs_ \- bolts to the side and out of her bedroom door. She gets up, chases him down, because she might be sick but she's bigger and faster than he is, and she grabs him up and shakes him, still beautiful for all that she's furious with him and _monstrous_ in her illness.

“The hell's wrong with you, boy?” she snarls, nothing like Momma. “The hell is your game?” Her eyes narrow sharply, and she holds him close, like a baby, his feet dangling by her knees. “This your Daddy's doing, Clinton?”

“ _No_ , Momma,” he whimpers, too vividly aware of the stairs next to them, if he struggles he might fall but if he angers her she might _throw_ -

“ _Bullshit_ ,” she tells him, spit flying onto his cheek and forehead. “I know that fucker wants to turn you boys against me. You know your Daddy murdered little girls and babies over in Vietnam, boy?”

“N-no, Momma,” Clint doesn't know what to do, if he looks away or closes his eyes she might get mad at him for not listening, if he looks straight at her she might get mad for defying her, whatever that means. He takes a deep breath, scared to move. “Momma, can I-”

The front door opens, and Daddy's stepping in, calling cautiously up into the house. “Edith? Honey? School called me at work, said Clint's been out a lot this month, is he up-” He stops at the foot of the stairs, and Clint's too scared to look at him, but Momma looks so mad. “Edith, baby, I'm gonna take Clint to his room,” Daddy says calmly, taking the steps two at a time, but slowly.

“Fuck off, Harold,” Momma snaps. “Not givin' him to you, you fuckin' _babykiller_.” Daddy stops, but he's close enough that Clint can smell the machine oil from Daddy's job at The Plant.

“Honey,” he says gently, “let me take Clint to his room. He's sick, right? The school says it's _okay_ for him to miss a few days when he's sick, you just gotta _tell'em_ first. And if our boy's sick, he should be in bed. Right?”

“Don't pretend like you care,” Momma snaps, but her grip on Clint is weakening. Daddy takes Clint out of her arms like he doesn't weigh anything, because Daddy's so strong, stronger than anyone else in the world. Momma's still muttering, words like _babykiller_ and _Vietnam_ and _fucker_ , none of them words that mean anything to Clint but all terrify him just the same.

Daddy puts Clint in bed and lays a hand on Clint's forehead, eyes distant. “You just stay here til your brother gets back, Clinton,” he murmurs, leaning down to press a bristly kiss on Clint's cheek before he leaves to deal with Momma.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It's nothing he has to _deal_ with, most of the time. Clint's job is up top, up _high_ , away from everything and everyone. Nobody can touch him, nobody ever even sees him, and even when the job is _put an arrow into the crazy dictator_ Clint can focus enough to do the job, because he's too far (probably) for his target to infect him with... with anything.

He still needs a few extra showers after those missions, still needs an extra day or two before he can really sleep again, because you never- you don't ever see it coming, you never know when it's going to get you the way it got Momma and Daddy. Clint doesn't know which one of them _started_ it, but deep down he knows the other one only went that way because of the first.

Even deeper down, right in the core of him, Clint knows that it's probably his fault, that neither of his parents would have been crazy if he hadn't come along like he did. Barney had been the sanest person he ever knew, and Barney left Clint because Barney _knew_ that staying would just-

Clint curls up on the edge of the bed in his tiny SHIELD-issue room and contemplates another shower.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Coulson becomes Phil after five years and three months and two weeks and four days. That's how long Clint's been an Agent, working for SHIELD. Five years, two months, one week, and six days is how long Clint's wanted to fuck him, which is stupid, because it would probably destroy Clint's chances at working here, and he actually kind of likes it.

Four years and a month and three days since Clint's wanted to be _with_ Coulson, to have a- a _thing_ with him, which is even _more_ stupid, because a classy, educated guy like Coulson would never ever want someone as trashy and fucked-up as Clint.

It's a relatively low-key mission- they're in Missouri, for God's sake, they're just keeping an eye on some junior agents to evaluate their performance- and Phil turns to Clint and asks, “You want some coffee?”

“Sure, if you're buyin',” Clint grunts, peering down at the street through binoculars. “Dunkin Donuts down the block, long as it's not decaf I don't care what it is, Sir. Surprise me.”

“I was thinking we'd be getting that coffee _after_ work. _Together_ ,” Phil says quietly. Clint puts down the binoculars, blinking up at him for a moment.  
“That... that would be... _wonderful_ ,” Clint says slowly, a grin working its way onto his face. “I... um. I'd _love_ to, Phil.”

“Alright. After work it is,” Phil smiles back. “ _Clint._ ”

It _is_ wonderful. Coffee becomes their constant, it becomes their thing. They might not get very many dinners in there, those first couple of months, but they both drink about a gallon of the stuff a day, so it makes sense to do it together. Five years is a long _time_ for people who might not get _another_ five, in this line of work, and perhaps nobody looks askance at them for going a little fast, for moving in together in a matter of weeks.

But- as it turns out, they get another five years, and then another. Phil notices, understands what Clint won't or can't tell him about being a kid, about shrinks, and he doesn't leave and he doesn't even look at Clint differently.

When the job is _kill the crazy dictator_ now, Clint comes home to their on-base house and only takes one shower, buries himself under sheets and blankets and a quilt Phil's mom made, just for Clint, and he lets Phil touch him without panicking, without wondering if _this_ will be the time that he passes his disease to Phil.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

New Mexico is... problematic. He's high up enough that the crazy guy could never touch him, so that's fine, but he's not really supposed to kill crazy blonde intruder, and if he doesn't, that means they capture him, and that means-

It's not a problem. It's not a problem. Clint can be fine. It'll be fine.

“ _Agent Barton_ ,” Phil's voice is gentle over the radio. Clint blinks water out of his eyes. The rain's stopped. When did it stop?

“Thought I'd stay up here, sir. Keep an eye on things,” Clint responds quickly. A flicker of movement catches his eye, a well-dressed man walking up to the hammer in the center of the crater. He shouldn't be there, Clint thinks, why is no one else _noticing_ him?

“ _Alright, Barton. Do what you need to do_ ,” because Phil is understanding, Phil is a fucking _saint_ , and the man down there on the ground is dressed so much _nicer_ than any of the other agents down there, shoulder-length hair way against _all_ regulations, and he turns and _he fucking looks up_ , straight at _Clint_ , and Clint sees the slightly blurry movement as the man winks at him.

The man disappears. There is no flash or smoke, no one on the ground even _notices_.

Clint remembers Daddy talking to soldiers who died back in 'Nam, remembers Momma and the way she'd protect him and Barney from the demons living on their ceiling, and he can't stop shaking, he can't even string two words together until he gets back to their camper. Phil reaches out for him and Clint pulls back, and _that_ hasn't happened in _years_.

“You want to tell me?” Phil asks, holding out a hand, palm up. Clint hesitates before taking it, lets Phil herd him into a chair, gives a ghost of a smile when Phil puts a thermos of coffee in front of him.

“Seeing things,” Clint mutters, looking at the thermos. “Always knew it was- it was inevitable. I mean, that shit's hereditary, right? And it got _both_ my parents.”

“It's alright, Clint,” Phil promises, folding his hands around one of Clint's. “Tell me what it was?”

“A guy, an unfamiliar one. Dark hair, nice suit... walking around like he belonged there.” Clint takes a sip of his coffee. It's decaf, which is probably Phil's passive-aggressive way of trying to get Clint into bed for some actual rest. “He disappeared. Like... just... vanished. And right before he did that, he looked right at me.”

Phil blinks, then nods a little. “Does it make it better if it's not an isolated incident, Clint?”

“ _What_?” Clint barks, and Phil regards him with that soft, careful expression, the one that hides anything Phil _wants_ it to hide.

“Our guest was behaving... interestingly earlier,” he says, and Clint winces before he can continue. “Agents Torrance and Chambers reported seeing a stranger on-base that matches that description, though.”

“Danny and Jake are full of crap,” Clint mutters, but it's good enough that he doesn't need to stay away from Phil tonight.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It turns out Thor's not crazy, after all. So there's _that_.

It turns out Thor's little brother Loki is _possibly_ crazy. Thor isn't entirely clear on the details, which sets Clint's teeth on edge, despite the fact that Clint genuinely _likes_ the big guy. Phil laughs a little as Clint grumbles over breakfast, sulking too much, too comfortable and _complacent_ to return the kiss pressed against Clint's cheek. Natasha drops by and is the worst best friend _ever_ , going on and on about how fun Bruce Banner is, how Clint should try to get to know him once this mission to take out Thor's little _bastard_ of a brother is over.

She leaves after extracting a promise to spar later, and that's when Clint notices that the house is cold, colder than it has any right to be. _There is no time_ , one moment he is walking back towards his bedroom in search of his nicest sweatpants (you can't meet Captain America wearing the crap you sleep in, right?) and the next he is sagging against the wall of the hallway, ice-cold fingers tracing his lower lip, the curve of his cheek, down his throat. He _feels_ it, the moment Loki steps _into_ him, _becomes_ him, and his mind is sour against Clint's, wild like a sick and dying lion.

_No,_ Clint moans, but it's inside, it's silent, and the madman wears Clint like a suit and walks him down the hall, ignoring every sound Clint makes, and laughing when Clint breaks, when he goes still and lets himself drift, barely tethered to events as it is.

Loki's mind is a bruise on Clint's, spreading like blood under the surface of it, candlesmoke and machine oil and a wet mouth, sagging against Clint's cheek, _maybe I'll just eat you up, baby, my baby,_ and the smell of stale beer, a rough hand around his wrist, _Sarge wouldn't have taken this bullshit from you, maggot, look me in the eye when I'm talking to you, you little fuck._

_Don't let her eat me up, Barney,_ Clint sobs, and Loki is laughing and laughing, and Clint feels himself moving, feels the bow in his hands and for a second it's almost _okay_ , the bow is _good,_ the arrows take the badness with them, but then there is screaming and _screaming_ and blood and Natasha kicks Clint, right in the chest and he staggers and sinks to his knees, the bow is gone and he's _alone_. Loki is gone but the crawling in Clint's skin, in his veins, it won't stop, even though his arms are tucked way in so that he can fit in the darkest part of the closet, behind the clothes, on top of his and Barney's shoes.

“Don't eat me,” he begs, his chest tight, his throat closing. “Don't. _Don't eat me_ , Momma. Please, don't, don't eat me, don't eat m-”

“Clint!” Natasha yells, slapping his face until it burns. She sounds scared. She _should_ be scared, because she's touching Clint and the crazy's in him, it's inside his skin- “ _Look_ at me!”

Clint looks, startled. Green eyes, big and scared (like Barney, _oh Barney please don't let her eat me_ ) and wet, twin tracks down her cheeks. Short red hair, tousled and messy (a lion, sick, dying) but wavy, almost curly, not like Momma's at all. Clint takes a deep breath, and lets her move his arms a little.

“Mom-” he begins, wincing. “...Natasha. Tasha. Where am- where is Loki? He was- in our _house_ , oh God, Tasha, _where is Phil_? I need to- Tasha, no, _stop_ , I need him, I _need_ him, _don't-_ ”

Natasha's crying into Clint's hair, arms around his shoulders, and he feels his body sobbing but he can't hear it, he can't hear _anything_ anymore because his pulse is beating through his ears too fast, too strong, he can't _do_ this, he needs Phil, he needs him, Phil should _be here_ , he would _never_ stay _away_ like this, Phil has to be _here_ , Phil needs, Phil isn't here and he _needs to be here_ , Clint needs him, Phil-

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Yes,” Clint says, staring down at nothing. “That's pretty much the size of it.”

“Oh, Clint,” Natasha sighs, crouching down in front of him. “It's not your _fault_. This is nothing we were _ever_ trained for. You weren't even _there_ when he-”

“ _I should have been._ ” Clint drags a hand over his face, shuddering out a sigh. “He _wanted_ me to go in with him. If I'd just- if I'd been there, it wouldn't have gone _down_ like that-”

“You can't know how it _might have_ happened,” she says, and she means it, and Clint knows, and he just... he can't. She runs a hand over his cheek, the gripped leather covering her palm catching on his stubble, the calluses on her exposed fingers oddly soothing, right near his hairline.

“What am I supposed to do _now_?” he asks softly, and she gives him a tight, hurt little smile.

“We _avenge_ him.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

In the end, it's Clint. Not the god with the hammer and the thunder at his beck and call, not the perfectly built human, not the raging monster and not the genius in the armor. It's Clint, Clint alone, one hand on Loki's throat, one over his mouth to stop that fucking laughter. Clint _wants_ the disgust, he wants the filth, he wants the _punishment_.

It's a cruel _joke_. Clint feels nothing, staring into those wild eyes, not moving his hand away when the cold, slimy tongue moves against his palm. _He feels nothing_. There is no one left to fear for, there is nothing left to protect.

There is nothing. He lets Loki go, stands and walks away, wiping his hand on his uniform as Thor rushes to his brother's side. Clint doesn't care anymore.

He won't stop _fighting_. He's good at it, and Tasha's still invested, she still _likes_ it, and as long as she wants him he'll be there. Tony is a pretty good guy, and Bruce is surprisingly awesome, and Thor is great, he's nothing like his brother and that's really his main selling point.

Clint isn't sure if he can work with Steve. Phil adored him, and it's not fair that Clint gets to be the one to spend time with Steve, to fight alongside him.

Clint can... can probably make it okay. It should be fine. He thinks.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Ten years of a life together, built into the walls of that stupid little house. Thor's already carried the boxes of Phil's records and his comic books and every single one of his band shirts (they're all marked FRAGILE – IMPORTANT) over to Tony's mansion. Clint's not sure what he'll do with Phil's stuff, but... whatever.

Clint's uniforms, his SHIELD-issue field suit, a couple of t-shirts and some sweatpants and socks and underwear all fit into a duffel bag. His bows are in their cases, stacked into the backseat of Tony's car.

The dishes were a gift from Phil's sister. She hasn't returned any of Clint's calls. They're _staying_.

The quilt was a gift from Phil's mother. She's been dead four years. It's coming with Clint.

He doesn't have a lot of time before Tony gets impatient to move things along. He understands how weird Tony is about _feelings_ and _loss_ , so it doesn't really make Clint mad. He's not even annoyed, not really.

Clint takes a box of birthday candles out of a kitchen drawer and sets seven of them up in a circle on one of the stupid dishes. He lights them all, stares at them for a moment, and blows them out.

Barney's still right about wishes. It still doesn't hurt to try. (Only it _does_ , it tears him _apart_ , it should work because this is their fucking _life_ , this is _Phil's_ life and Clint _needs_ it to work, and never fucking _mind_ that _thing_ in the casket.)

Clint steps into their bedroom, ducks his head into the closet. Phil's suits are all hanging up. His nice shoes and his sneakers are tumbled together with Clint's converse and flip flops and both of their boots. Clint stares at them for a moment. _It's not stupid_. He bends down and folds himself into the closet, curling up on their shoes, and lets the slacks hanging overhead drape around his shoulders.

 


End file.
